Undone
by firestorm26cmktellstales
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is a student of The Woman. John Watson is a doctor looking for something different in his life. Desire will spark and burn when the two meet.
1. It's Better When you Do

Sherlock's toes curled, and his body arched, achingly high, off from the tangled mess of black and grey sheets of the bed. He struggled against the smooth, silky restraints wrapped around his wrists and his ankles. His eyes closed at the flicker of leather against his skin, and his mouth opened, involuntarily, to protest for it to stop and to beg for more. Sweat beaded down the back of his neck, and between his scapula; in the hollow of his knee, and down his calves. The mad curls of his hair stuck to his forehead.

After a wicked succession of blows to his thighs, there came a cool, soothing hand, and a gentle voice in his ear; sultry, and low, and filled with praise and pride.

"That was excellent, Sherlock. You handled yourself well."

Sherlock opened his eyes to to find the grey-green ones of The Woman staring at him, the bright red tips of her fingernails ghosting along his cheek.

"I've gotten used to it." he said to her.

"Mmm, then perhaps next time I should try something different?"

"You're the teacher Ms. Adler, I believe you can do as you wish."

The Woman laughed, and pushed herself away from Sherlock's body. She followed the line of it with her eyes, admiring the way he looked, the way his pants- jet black, expensive- hung from his frame. She didn't normally take on male students, but there had been something about him that intrigued her, and she found she couldn't say no.

She undid the restraints at his ankles, rubbed a soothing gel against his skin, and did the same with his wrists. He sat up, and took a drink from the glass of water sitting next to the bed.

"Have a cigarette, and grab some lunch." she said, "And we'll trade places."

Sherlock nodded, and watched her tighten the sheer material of her dressing gown around her milky form as she walked away from him and out of the bedroom. Sherlock sat up, stretching the tense muscles in his legs and along his back. He wrapped his own dressing gown around his body, and padded down the hallway and the stairs into the great kitchen of The Woman's home.

There was a sandwich waiting for him on a fine china plate at the island, and a glass of white wine to go with it. He sat on the stool, and took a bite.

He had been under The Woman's (Irene Adler to those who knew her outside of her profession) tutelage for four months. It was an impulsive decision on his part to leave behind the academic world he had grown accustomed to and start to live in a world of desire, pain and pleasure. He felt as though his life was missing something, and he was beginning to find whatever it was at either end of a riding crop.

Sherlock finished his sandwich, and his wine, and brought the dishes to the sink where someone else would wash them. He crossed the tile floor and opened the sliding door that brought him out to a patio and a lush, green garden. He pulled a cigarette from the pack kept inside his dressing gown, and popped it between his lips, lighting it with a match.

He let the smoke fill his lungs, and then dissipate in the air around him as he watched birds fly from tree to tree, pecking at the seed left in the feeders for them. He finished the cigarette, disposed of it in and ashtray on the glass table of the patio, and went back inside.

When he made it to the bedroom once again The Woman was in the bed, lying on her back; waiting.

Sherlock closed the door to the bedroom; a massive space filled with crystal and silver. He slid out from his gown, laid it against the back of a chair where he had taken it from, and bent down at her side. He reached for the restraints hanging to the floor, and wrapped her small wrists with the silk, and then her ankles. He walked, slowly, feeling her eyes follow him, to a high table, and slid his riding crop from the lot of options.

The Woman's breath hitched at the sight of it as Sherlock made his way back to her. Her eyes closed as he ran the tag along the lines of her body, parting the olive material of her gown to reveal her undergarments. He watched her, seasoned in an affair such as this, and picked out what was real anticipation, and what was a calculated response. She could pretend to be aroused by _him_, the cadence of his name parting from her lips was convincing enough, but he knew that it wasn't real. He held a place of intrigue for her, much like she did for him, but her interests didn't lie in what Sherlock's anatomy had to give her.

Her interests lied in the varying power and pleasure he could yield with the instrument in his hand. There was no facade in her eyes as she watched the crop glide across her skin, no pretending when her thighs tried to clench together as Sherlock dragged the edge along her most delicate skin.

He teased her a moment more, watched her chest rise and fall in shallow breaths, listened to the soft whines that escaped her. While not turned on by her, he _was_ fascinated by her reactions. He was guilty of taking satisfaction in watching the slow writhe of her body against the bed; in the struggle of her delicate wrists against the restraints.

With her face starting to flush pink, and sweat gathering in the hollow of her neck, Sherlock lifted the crop away from her skin; bringing his arm straight into the air. The Woman stared at him with big eyes, and watched him bring it down. it made the most beautiful sound as it cut through the air and snapped against her skin. She arched into the blow, and into the one that followed it, and the next, and the next.

Sherlock let the power wash over him. The adrenaline still made his body shake, still caught his breath in his throat. He composed himself as quickly as he could while The Woman asked for more. He took in a deep breath, and brought leather back against flesh.

With her body painted red, and her arousal spent, Sherlock put the riding crop back where it belonged, and brought the container of gel to the bedside, where he sat and rubbed the soothing lotion into her skin as she collected her wits.

His fingers were gentle against the welts, covering them fully.

If she had been a client rather than his teacher, the session likely would have continued into other areas, but Sherlock didn't need any teaching in that area, so he untied her wrists and rubbed the gel there as well.

"You've a bit more work to do there." She said to him, running her finger down the length of his chin. "But overall, it was wonderful."

"It's my control. It still wants to get away from me."

"You're a very in control man, Sherlock, denying yourself enjoyment. Now that you've found something beyond facts and figured that brings your beautiful mind enjoyment, it wants to run away with it. More time; more practice. That's all you need."

The Woman pressed a kiss to his cheek, and slid from the bed.

"Today's lesson is done. I have a private client tonight."

Sherlock nodded, and left the bedroom to follow the hallway into a guest room where he left his clothes. He washed his face from the warm basin of water left for him, changed, and made his way out of the house. He was exhausted; his muscles ached, his skin burned where she had left marks.

He leaned his head against the window of the cab he hailed, and closed his eyes, dreaming of the long, hot bath and bottle of wine waiting for him when he made it back to his flat, and of the smooth sheets of his own bed that he could slip into before the day started all over again the next morning.


	2. A Riding Crop is a Man's Bestfriend

The temperature of the water was perfect as Sherlock dipped his fingers inside the hot running bath. He untied his dressing gown, letting it slip away from his body as he slowly stepped into the tub. As he slowly lowered his body into the water, he hissed in pain as the feeling of the hot water beat against his red, swollen skin.

Eventually his body adjusted to the heat and he could finally relax. He watched his beaten skin swell from the heat as he slowly slipped down further into the bath. The water gradually swallowed his entire body as he rested his head against the firm headrest.

He reached for his glass of wine sitting on the tiles and swirled it for a moment. His soft cupid bow lips met with its rim before he swallowed a mouthful of the red, luxurious liquid. He could feel it slowly run down his throat as he savored its every taste.

Just as Sherlock placed his wineglass back on the tiles, he heard his phone ring. He wanted to ignore it; but its sound shot through the silent room like a bullet, shattering any hope of tranquility there ever was.

The phone was within arms reach as Sherlock stretched over the tub to grab it. He held the device in the palm of his hand for a moment before answering it. He was tempted to hang up, and just ignore her, but he knew he couldn't. What excuse could he possibly make up for something as deliberate as hanging up a phone?

"What happened to your private client?" he said as he held the phone up to his ear.

"Oh. Nothing. Nothing at all. I've just got a request."

"Irene-"

"That's Ms. Adler to you."

Sherlock sighed as he tightly clasped his fingers around the phone and pushed it harder against his ear. He found himself closing his eyes in sudden regret- wishing he had of ignored the call.

"Do you not remember our agreement? We discuss business obligations during business hours. Anytime before or after is our own private time to do what we please."

"I haven't forgotten. But my client has happened to change his mind."

"Change his mind? About what?"

Sherlock heard Irene's distinctive chuckle vibrate through the speaker and into his ear. He could almost taste her lips on his skin as she clawed her way through his tender flesh, laughing at Sherlock's every flinch.

"About you, darling."

Sherlock remained silent for a moment as he waited for Irene to continue speaking- but she never did. The phone on the other end suddenly hung up as Sherlock slowly lowered the device away from his ear.

"Damn it" he grunted to himself.

The Woman was someone Sherlock loved to hate. Deducing her was one of the hardest things he has tried to do. And it infuriates him. Maybe that was half the reason why he was doing what he was doing. To try and gather more information about her. Try and find out who she was underneath all of that erotic, seductiveness. Only time would tell.

After Sherlock dried himself off and got changed he ran outside and hailed a cab. He assumed Irene would be at her house. Sometimes the kinky clients liked to be seduced elsewhere. That much Sherlock did learn. It usually consisted of somewhere dark; like an alleyway or out the back of an old shop. Sometimes Sherlock noticed that the clients who rang Irene found themselves getting _really_ creative in their requests.

He made the mistake one afternoon in asking her where she took _those_ clients. She never answered. She just told him that he would find out for himself one day- first hand.

* * *

><p>The cab pulled up outside of Irene's house. Her huge luxurious house. It was practically a mansion. As Sherlock paid the driver, he ran up the steps two at a time. The building looked abandoned, but Sherlock knew better. He knew she was upstairs with her riding crop giving her client the best night of their life until she had them begging for more. That's how she makes her money- the clients can't get enough of her. They crawl back one way or another.<p>

Sherlock was still new at the profession. He didn't think so much precision went into doing what she does. But, for once in his life- he was wrong.

The door to the mansion was slightly open as Sherlock pushed himself against it. His footsteps echoed inside the empty foyer as he slowly made his way up the spiral staircase.

The further up he got, the more noises he heard. Until he was eventually met with Irene at the door of her bedroom. She was wearing black lace underwear with her hair pinned into a delicate bun. She firmly held her riding crop in her hands as Sherlock observed their surroundings.

"Your bedroom?" he questioned as he calmly held his hands behind his back.

"Of course. Clients request." she snicked while she deviously peered over her shoulder.

The client was restrained against the bedhead by a set of handcuffs. His legs were sprawled open and tied to the end just tight enough for him to feel the pressure against his skin. Sherlock could tell he was uncomfortable, but in the most pleasurable way possible. It was The Woman's secret after all, and not one could possibly match it.

"Why did you call me? He's still fresh. Not a mark in sight."

"Exactly. My client changed his mind."

"About what?"

"When he first made an appointment with me- I always ask for consent before bringing a student into the room. At first he wasn't overly keen on the idea of a man observing, but he has informed me tonight that you're more than welcome to watch. And since you're already here- you may as well take him up on that offer."

"You see, this is good training, Sherlock. Because you're not always going to end up with a woman. Men want pleasure too. And sometimes they prefer getting that pleasure from other men."

Sherlock looked slightly offended as if Irene had just insulted his intelligence. She was insinuating that he was not going to act professional in certain aspects of his job- which was hardly the case.

"You're the one who taught me, Ms. Adler- that I need to detach myself from customers and treat them as equal. And trust me, that wasn't hard."

"And that's why you're a perfect student for this, Sherlock. You're a Sociopath. Emotion doesn't come into your vocabulary often. And if it did, I'm still yet to see it."

As Irene walked away, riding crop in hand, Sherlock simply leaned against the door, observing from the distance.

He watched how Irene held the riding crop in her hands. How her fingers grasped the black leather right before she brought it crashing it down. The man screamed, almost as if he wasn't expecting it to sting or hurt.

"You need to go a little lower next time." Sherlock said from the other side of the room. "It might be hard to see from your angle, but you're missing his sensitive areas."

Irene smirked as she gently stroked the riding crop in her hand. She slowly paced towards Sherlock, using her charm to stare him directly in the eyes. Her mouth hovered over his ear where she whispered a subtle breath inside.

"Go on, Mr. Holmes. Show me what you're made of. His all yours."


	3. Touch (Oh, what a Touch)

The man on his knees, wrists bound behind his back was an attractive specimen. His frame was small and compact, muscle displayed easily in the position he was in. His chin tucked down to his chest, and his somewhat shaggy blonde hair obscured his face, but Sherlock imagined it was pleasing to look upon.

Not that any of that mattered of course. Sherlock was taught to look beyond the physicality of the clients and see them as nothing more than the means of a business transaction; Sherlock and his skill set were for sale, and it was no matter who paid for him.

Sherlock removed his jacket, placed it on the swooping, ivory back of Ire-The Woman's chair and unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt before rolling the sleeves up to his elbows. For now, he would stay dressed, much more so than The Woman next to him.

Sherlock pressed his shoes against the carpet until the man could see the gleaming leather, could feel the shoes pressed underneath the cloth of his trousers around his knees. The man himself had on no shoes, no socks. An incredible rush came over Sherlock realizing how much power there was in him being mostly dressed, and the man being mostly undressed.

Sherlock reached a hand out, ran it down his face, and tilted his head up when he reached his chin.

The man was young, younger than Sherlock was expecting, perhaps even younger than himself.

"What's your name?" Sherlock asked.

"Aaron, sir." he answered.

His voice was quiet, but sure.

"Aaron, I'm Sherlock."

"Nice to meet you, sir."

"Are you comfortable?"

"Yes, sir."

"Are you calling me sir because you like to, or because its what you think I want to hear?"

"The latter, sir."

"Well, Aaron." Sherlock crouched down in front of him, and bristled his fingers through his hair. "I don't require to be called sir, or anything else. Feel free and comfortable to use my name. Alright?"

"Y-yes, Sherlock."

Sherlock twitched the corner of his mouth up into something like a smile, and stood.

"Now, tell me, what is it you like?"

"Scratches. I like to be scratched; scraped."

"I can do that for you Aaron."

The table that earlier in the day held Sherlock's crop had an assortment of items; blunt, sharp, big and small. He ran his fingers across them, and then walked away, back to where Aaron still knelt, eyes wide with anticipation, bottom lip trapped between his teeth.

Sherlock dropped an arm onto his shoulder, and walked around him until he was standing with his feet between Aaron's legs. He looked up, and for the first time to The Woman, standing with her shoulder to the wall, and a small smile on her face. It jarred Sherlock out from inside his head for just a moment before he felt Aaron's leg twitch, likely tired from the weight being forced upon it due to his position.

He ignored the instruments on the table in favour of his own nails, neatly trimmed and cleaned. He started with thin scratches over the expanse of his scapula, following the crest Aaron's back made as he reacted to the sensation. Sherlock barely touched his skin and yet he let out a sigh; long and breathy, as if he had been holding it in for an eternity.

The majority of the clientele were businessmen, and women of high power. People who carried a great deal of stress in their back pockets, and had a specific way of letting it all go.

Aaron's breath caught in his throat as Sherlock scratched harder, leaving white streaks in his wake. Sherlock was amazed at the sort of things that got people off; a few simple scratches, nothing different than if he was fighting away an irritating itch, and this man was nearly melting into a puddle on the floor.

Sherlock had an entire disposal of things he could use, but he and the client, at some point, came to a silent agreement that his nails were doing the job just fine, so he crouched down again. undid the restraints, rubbing circles into the red marks left behind on his wrist, and placed them up front in his lap. He uncurled Aaron's legs so he was sitting on his behind, bent him over a little further, and set himself in the same fashion, legs pressed in close.

"Comfortable?" Sherlock asked into his ear.

Aaron nodded, and Sherlock brought his nails up and down the man's back; hard on the upswing and soft on the downstroke, making a pattern of white and red welts as he went. He drew patterns, forwent any kind of path. he scratched over his shoulders and down his biceps, underneath the line of his trousers.

It went on for close to an hour, Sherlock winded from the residual arousal Aaron was passing into the air on the cusp of every breath. He had no idea if this man could come from the act alone, but he hadn't asked to do so, so Sherlock kept on, listening to his breathing, feeling his muscles tense until the hour was over, and Sherlock ran the palms of his hands over the lines with a cooling lotion.

Sherlock stood, and helped Aaron up from the floor.

"That was wonderful." he said, and then turned to The Woman, "he was amazing."

The Woman gave a smile, and pushed her shoulder away from the wall. She walked over to the two men, ran a nail along Sherlock's cheek, and left a faint kiss there.

"He is, isn't he?"

The Woman shifted her eyes away from him, and placed her arm through Aaron's after he slipped back into his shirt, and walked him from the bedroom. Sherlock picked up the restraints from the floor, sprayed them with cleansing solution and laid it out to dry until it could be placed back in the drawer with the rest of the silk restraints in the supply room.

The Woman's voice came gliding through the air and into his ears as he was packing up the rest of the things.

"You are going on The List Sherlock."

He turned, and leaned the small of his back against the table.

"Are you sure?"

"You'll still have lessons; things to learn. Next week I'd like to start training you Japanese rope tying, but aside from specialty things like that, I think you're ready to be on your own."

Sherlock grinned, and let it disappear quickly back into his usual passive expression.

"That's fine, Ms. Adler. Thank you."

"No. Thank you." She crossed the room and pressed her body up against his, pushing him farther into the edge of the table.

"Could I interest you in spending the night; an extra lesson, perhaps?"

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to pass."

He pushed her off from him and slipped away, starting toward the door to leave.

"One of these days, Sherlock, you won't be able to say no to me. I've watched you, I've trained you; I know what you like."

Sherlock turned back to her as his foot crossed the threshold, "You have no idea what I like, _Irene_."


	4. An Imaginative Whimper

Irene sat in front of her dressing table mirror where she refreshed her lipstick. The beautiful red complimented her milky white skin as she puckered her lips, making sure that she hadn't missed a spot.

The sound of her phone ringing caught her attention for a moment where she found herself staring at name she read on the screen brought a smirk to her face as she held the device up to her ear.

"It's been awhile." she said to the person on the other end.

"I know. You said you have been busy with training. I didn't want to take you away from that."

"Yes. You're quite correct. But... training isn't more important than my clients. You will always remain my top priority."

"So, when can I see you next? It's been one week now and I need it-"

"Hush darling. Don't worry. Everyone needs their release. And it sounds like you're overdue."

"That's an understatement, Irene. I have been trying to relieve myself at home. And...it's just not working. I can't give myself the same amount of satisfaction. You just don't understand how fucking frustrating that is..."

"See me tomorrow night. And I'll see what I can do. I'll give you something extra special in return as compensation. But until then, please do try and behave yourself. And If you can resist the temptation, I promise you that tomorrow night will be like heaven."

"And if I can't?"

"Well, we're just going to have to work our way around that, won't we?"

Irene smiled as she hung up her phone. She clasped it in her hand for a steady minute before redirecting her attention back onto the lit screen. As her fingers scrolled through the various names in her phonebook- she stopped on Sherlock's.

* * *

><p>Sherlock was at home- making himself comfortable. Having such a simple privilege given to him was a true honor. Getting put onto the list was enough, but to be given the blessing to visit clients alone was a beautiful thing. In this life- it's like getting a job promotion.<p>

Sherlock was ecstatic. He grinned as he poured himself a glass of red wine. He had the tv going, fire burning and a hot shower in mind for later. As he slowly paced over his kitchen floor, he yanked open the fridge door to grab out a snack- until he heard the sound of his mobile phone ringing. He looked at the screen, noticing straight away who it was. He was almost going to ignore it, but he couldn't- not after his promotion.

For once he wanted to be the one doing the relaxing. Every night, Sherlock would be in training with The Woman. She would teach him the art of relaxation. And for once, Sherlock wanted to put that art to good use: on himself. He may still be new, and his clients at a bare minimum, but the rules never change.

_Rule 1: Make the clients as comfortable and relaxed as possible unless stated otherwise._

"Hello.."

"Hello dear. You just can't seem to get rid of me, can you?"

"I would never want to get rid of you." Sherlock sarcastically replied which caused a chuckle to emit from the other end.

"I need to borrow you tomorrow night. You have your first client."

"Well, from my understanding, my first client was actually today..."

"I mean your first client..._alone_. I'm not going to be there to hold your hand. He's a good client too. A regular in fact. From day one, we have always done our business in my guest room. I assume that's where he'll be tomorrow also."

"And am I supposed to feel intimidated by that fact?"

"Not at all. Just behave yourself. I know you can have controlment issues at times. And that worries me, Sherlock."

"I'll be fine. Look, if you don't trust me- just take me off the list."

"That won't be needed. But, consider this client the clencher. If you do this right- maybe I will consider hiring you after all."

The phone instantly hung up as Sherlock found himself delicately placing it back onto the nearby bench. He wasn't entirely certain of what to think. He had a million thoughts running through his head; and not one made sense.

* * *

><p>The next day came faster than Sherlock would have liked. He didn't like pressure. And what he was going to have to face tonight was exactly that- pressure. The thought of this one client, deciding his fate and future was daunting; but Sherlock knew that he would be able to exceed Irene's expectations- and he would be proud of it.<p>

Whoever this mysterious man was, Sherlock knew he would have him on the ground- panting for air. And as he struggled to overcome the million symphonies playing inside his head, Sherlock knew he was going to make him scream them out in undeniable pleasure.

Sherlock had a plan. And his plan was to use every single technique Irene Adler had ever taught him, and if all went well, this man would be on the ground begging for mercy….begging for more. And Sherlock knew he wasn't going to give into his cries so easily.

Sherlock had met a crossroads in his life. And he would do anything to this man. Anything to hear a scream, a pant...a whimper.


	5. The First Time

He was embarrassed when he arrived at The Woman's; running behind schedule, looking all for the world like he had gotten in a fight with his hair dryer, and the hair dryer won- he was fairly certain he was even wearing two different shoes. He was absolutely going to kill Mycroft for choosing that evening to whisk him from his flat, and give him yet another lecture on how there was "so much more you could be doing with your life, and your talent. Is being a prostitute really where a man like you ought to be?"

Yes. It was where a man like Sherlock ought to be, because a man like Sherlock didn't fit into any place else. An entire lifetime of knowing everything about everyone- even the things he shouldn't have; didn't want to know, angering them when he laid their deepest secrets bare before their feet. But now, they came to him, baring their own secrets, begging for him to know all the things they kept locked inside.

Sherlock took the stairs two at a time to the top floor of the home. The Woman was waiting for him, tapping the toe of her heels against the hardwood floor in front of the closed bedroom door.

"Blame my brother." he said.

"Oh, believe me, he'll get what he deserves."

The Woman straightened the collar of Sherlock's shirt, and pressed down the wrinkles across his chest.

"He's a good man; very patient. He's all ready to go. I have a meeting with a potential student. Please, do well." she said, turning and clicking away from him before Sherlock could ask any more questions.

He drew in a deep breath, and opened the door.

It was a room that Sherlock had never been in before; grand like the rest of the rooms in her home, but there was something more about it. The walls were a golden color, and the floor sparkled like there was marble dust sprinkled across it. His mismatched shoes echoed with each step across it.

The bed, a great four poster beast, set in the middle, white and gold silk blankets atop it, and on top of those was the client. His wrists were tied to the upper posts, his ankles fitted into the restraints underneath the mattress. He had a blindfold over his eyes, and was without his clothes aside from a pair of gunmetal grey pants. He was lying there, comfortable against the fabric, but his limbs were stiff, and his chest rose and fell with the slightest bit of trepidation, despite the fact that this was a position he had been placed in numerous times. Sherlock easily could have attributed it to nervousness in a new dominator, but the thin sheen of sweat at his brow line suggested something different.

Trust Issues. Which seemed rather odd for a man currently blindfolded, and tied to a bed.

Sherlock shuffled around a bit more, readying his supplies on the glass table. He took notice of a cane leaning against it, and looked to the man's leg; nothing out of the ordinary, but as he scanned his frame more, he did take notice of a scar on his left shoulder.

Interesting.

"Apologies for having kept you waiting, Dr. Watson." Sherlock said, quickly recalling the name The Woman texted him earlier in the day.

"It's fine. Mr. Holmes. And John will do just fine."

"Alright, John."

He picked up the riding crop, slid it against the palm of his own hand and felt the leather bend and flex against his fingers before gently tracing it along the dividing line of John's chest, down to his bellybutton. John jumped at the unexpected contact, but quickly melted into it, flexing the muscles of his abdomen each time Sherlock swiped over them.

Sherlock watched the strength hidden underneath the compact flesh, watched the veins in his arms dilate as he squeezed his fingers against the material of his ties into the palms of his hands. Sherlock caught his own breath in his throat.

"Does that feel good?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes, it does."

"Would you like some more?"

"I would."

Sherlock flicked his wrist, ever lightly snapping the tag of the crop against John's stomach. It left a small red mark that quickly vanished. Sherlock did it again; several successions of small snaps that drew a harsh breath from John each time.

He ran the instrument along John's face, following the line of his jaw up to his brown. He watched John's mouth part as he leaned into it like the fingers of a lover. Sherlock leaned over him, his mouth pressed to John's ear, and replaced the cold, hard leather with the tips of his fingers.

He could see the change in John's posture as inanimate quickly became intimate, he could feel the tension roll off from him. He traced the pad of his thumb between his eyes, along the curve of his nose, and over the red of his lips.

"Do you trust me?" Sherlock whispered into his ear.

"Yes." John answered.

He sounded unsure of the answer, but desperate to believe that it was true, and so Sherlock accepted it. He reached beyond John where he left the crop to rest, took it up in his hand, and standing over him fully now, brought it down with a satisfying crack.

John's body bucked on it's own accord, trying both at once to be nearer and farther from the sensation, and he yelled out at the perfect pulse of pain that radiated over his nerves.

With each blow, Sherlock listened to John's cries, and responded to them with the crack of his whip. When John yelled out, biting off a curse, he found a new piece of skin, and brought the crop down light and flickering. When the cry was laced with a breathy plea, he rose it far above his head and gave no mercy to the skin it landed on.

After fifteen minutes, both men were red, sweaty and exhausted.

Sherlock set his instrument back on the table, and took a drink of water from one of the bottles left in the room. He brought the other back to the bed with him, and untied John's hands, handing him the water as he untied his ankles.

John left the blindfold over his eyes.

Sherlock spread a generous amount of soothing lotion over his hands, and began to gently rub at the marks left along John's body. He felt the insecurity in the tightness of his muscles, heard it in the gasping breaths as he kept holding them in before needing to let go.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm sorry?"

"You're returned recently from war; was it Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Afghanistan. How did- The Woman told you?"

"No. All she told me was your name. I can still see remnants of a tan in your face and on your hands- not the rest of your body though. Interesting form of therapy you've chosen. Don't imagine Veterans Affairs pays for this."

John laughed.

Sherlock poured out more lotion and ran his hands along John's thighs. They were firm, and smooth, and powerful. A soldier; life hanging in the balance at every moment, relying on his physical strength to keep him from danger, but also his mental strength.

It was very possible that John was the strongest person Sherlock had ever touched.

"No, they don't. Traditional therapy didn't do much for me, though. Not sure what the benefit of complaining to someone for an hour is for anyone to be honest."

"But having the trust beat into you-?"

John laughed again, and Sherlock lost his breath for a moment as his heart failed to beat.

What the hell was that about?"

"Works wonders." John answered.

Sherlock managed a small laugh himself, applying more lotion, now over the large scar on John's shoulder. He circled around it, careful not to press into it, but undeniably anxious to see every ugly mark heal.

There was a soft moan from within John's throat, and he dropped his head against the wood back of the bed. Sherlock noticed some time along his calf that with each knead of his fingers, John relaxed a bit more. And the more John relaxed, the more tense Sherlock felt.

"Your hands are amazing." John said. "Bloody long fingers."

"Y-yes." Sherlock's voice cracked, much to his embarrassment, "I suppose my fingers are quite long."

"Mmm. Far better than Ms. Adler. Though don't tell her I said so."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

Sherlock flicked his eyes over to John's face to catch his tongue darting between his lips. He shook his head at the urge to reach over and kiss him; an urge he hadn't felt in a long time. He at least wanted to rip off the blindfold and look into his eyes; see their color, and how they played against the shade of his skin and his graying blonde hair.

Sherlock hastily rubbed the last spot of lotion down John's bicep, and stood up from the bed.

He couldn't be certain, but he thought he heard John whimper at the loss of contact between their skin.

"I'm afraid we've reached out time limit, Dr. Watson." he said. "Take your time in dressing; no rush."

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes. I- thank you."

"Of course. Goodnight."

Sherlock opened the door, his hands full of lotion of sweat, he missed the knob several times. When in the hallway, he breathed in the air, so much cooler than what he was trying to take in on the other side of the door. he heard a rustling sound; John moving about inside, and scurried down the stairs.

His chest was tight, his mouth was dry, and there was a fire burning deep within his belly that wouldn't stop churning.


	6. That Ringing in my Head

Sherlock sucked in a deep breath as he walked home. He decided to walk, as he needed time to think. He wrapped his arms around himself, hugging his abdomen as he gazed up into the sky. It was still light, but dusk was lingering.

John. No..not John- Doctor Watson. He infested Sherlock's mind and thoughts. He kept replaying their experience together in his head. He could feel their every touch as if he was back in the room and the moment.

_Bloody long fingers..._

Sherlock tried to shake the words from his head. But it was useless. They just kept flowing. They wouldn't stop.

_General therapy didn't do much for me…_

"Just shut up!" Sherlock frustratingly yelled through gritted teeth before aggressively ruffling his hair.

His apartment was within view. As he hastily began to walk faster towards the building, he felt the cold air blow against his skin. The open space he roamed made him feel uneasy. It's vastness was neverending. Everywhere he looked was just open space- a certain vulnerability he didn't enjoy the feeling of.

The open atmosphere reminded him of his own mind. There was so much space that needed filling- like a jigsaw. A jigsaw of knowledge. There should be enough knowledge out there to fill every particle in the air. And hopefully enough to suffocate oxygen itself.

Imagine each microscopic atom containing a valuable source of information. Oh, Sherlock would do anything to unlock that.

He snickered as the thought ran through his mind.

"If only it were that simple." he said to himself before grasping the doorknob to his apartment. He pushed the door open, letting the wood glide along the floor. As he pattered inside, he looked up the stairs to the second bedroom and smirked before entering his own.

As the door behind him closed, he exhaled a deep breath, one he felt like he had been holding in for far too long. As he toed off his shoes he staggered over to his bed.

Comfort...finally.

* * *

><p>Sherlock didn't realize he had fallen asleep. A tight sensation grasped itself around his wrists as he slowly fluttered his eyes awake. He was in his apartment, in his bed, but something was different. He tilted his head up, only to see his wrists restrained against the wooden bedhead by a piece of white sheet with the initials I.A embroidered on it.<p>

"Do you like it?"

Sherlock watched as The Woman entered his bedroom. She wore nothing more than a pair of black lace underwear and leather gloves.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked as he helplessly squinted his eyes shut.

"Isn't it obvious? Can't the great Sherlock Holmes deduce what I'm about to do?" Irene said as she slowly began to pace towards Sherlock's retrained legs. "Or do I have you so tightly wrapped around my little finger, that you really don't know?"

Sherlock said nothing. He simply pulled at his restraints. But that was answer enough.

Irene chuckled as she met with the end of the bed. She stood between Sherlock's sprawled legs as his eyes traced her body up and down. She slowly began to crawl into the space between them while she stared into his gorgeous blue eyes. Her body gradually creeped its way over his. He was completely naked with nothing more than a simple pair of boxer shorts on.

As her mouth met with his ear he shuddered at the sensation. He could feel invisible goosebumps scatter themselves across his skin as he tried to pull away from her bittersweet pleasure.

"Irene..I'm not in the mood. I just got back from pleasuring a client."

"I think you mean John." She whispered as her mouth seductively hovered over his lips.

"Yes. John... I just finished pleasuring him. And I need rest."

Irene bit her lip as she felt Sherlock's breath cascade against her face. Her hands gently rubbed Sherlock's hipbones up and down in a repeated motion which caused Sherlock to drop his head back and moan.

"I told you Sherlock. You can't say no to me forever. I know what you like.."

Those words shot through Sherlock like a bullet. The tension in that moment was one he wasn't going to forget anytime soon. But he also knew he wasn't going to be getting taken advantage of like this. He was Irene's student and nothing more.

"What is this supposed to be? I'm your student, Irene. We're not lovers. You're just as unattached as I am."

"Well, now...I know that's a lie. John rang me earlier."

Sherlock felt like his throat had tightened up. He wished he could take hold of it. But with his wrists restrained like they were- it was useless. He could only cough out a few words, in hopes that she wouldn't detect his inner nervousness.

"He..rang you? Why?"

"I'm not here to punish you Sherlock. I'm here to reward you. He said he had an amazing time. And he did. I can tell."

Sherlock suddenly felt his body becoming aroused. Hearing those words gave him a new form of sexual frustration- one he had never felt before. Knowing that he could independently give sexual pleasure to someone as experienced as Doctor Watson sent his mind into overdrive.

Irene could see the struggle in his face. His cheeks blushed into a hot tone of red as his body struggled to escape the uncomfortable situation he had just been thrusted into.

"John Watson is different though. Look at you. You want more...don't you?"

Sherlock tried to adjust himself, adjust his mind so he could at least try and act professional. He couldn't let Irene know what he felt in that room. It wouldn't be decent, and it certainly wouldn't be professional.

"More? I don't know what you mean. I simply do this in a professional manner. It's strictly business. Nothing more and nothing less. John Watson is a client. And that is all."

"Good. Keep it that way. Because if you're going to act out of line, Sherlock Holmes. I'm afraid I'm going to have to exterminate your position."

Sherlock's eyes widened as he stared directly into Irene's. She smirked as if Sherlock was her puppet on a string. She was controlling him and Sherlock knew that there was nothing he would be able to do. This life was an addiction, his addiction. It was one where it would always have him craving more. And there was nothing he could possibly do about it. He was certain of that now.


	7. The Menu

Irene stared at him a few moments, her eyes fixated on the features across his face as though she was searching for something. Sherlock tried to read hers in return, but there was always something about her, some way that she kept herself cut off from any and everything. He couldn't make out what it was she wanted, but by the time he was starting to feel frustrated, she was at his bedside, untying his wrists from their binds.

"Make sure that Dr. Watson, or any other client of yours stays that way. It's dangerous otherwise."

"I've never been in love before, Irene, and I doubt very much if a washed up Army doctor is going to be the one to change that."

Irene smiled, and stuffed the silk scarves into the pockets of her coat, "You're right." she said with a cheery laugh, and shrugged her shoulders, "It would take someone far more interesting than that to start your heart finally beating."

Sherlock tugged the corners of his mouth into a small smirk, and nodded his head against the pillow.

"Yes, it would." he said.

As quickly as Irene showed up in his bedroom, she disappeared as well, leaving him alone in the silence of his bedroom like she had never been there at all.

Sherlock was lost for sleep. He pulled himself out from his bed and into the kitchen where he poured a glass of milk from the fridge and set down at the dining room table, feeling the cold sensation on his fingertips more so than actually drinking any of it.

John Watson was not interesting, he was not special. He was not pleasing to look at, and he certainly, absolutely, had not turned Sherlock on. Not at all.

Other than that Sherlock was sitting in his kitchen, at two in the morning, drinking a glass of milk, and thinking about John Watson.

Sherlock sighed, slid his arm out across the uneven wood of the table, and dropped his head against the underside of his forearm. He tried to think of the last time someone had caught his fancy; it was Victor Trevor in his first year of University. Sherlock never did anything about it, of course. He was too busy with his studies, and too uninterested in any kind of sexual relationship that could end up with an emotional attachment from either party. So, he forgot all about the red-haired boy who used to watch him over the rim of his book in the science library.

Just like he would forget about John. Even if he saw him again, he would be professional; like he always was.

* * *

><p>The Menu was just as it sounded. There was an ever changing red and black book that sat in the foyer of The Woman's home during business hours (and a link to much the same thing on the website, for those who otherwise chose not to go out of their home). Inside, there were names; seven were required at all times including The Woman herself; at the moment, there were nine with the addition of Sherlock.<p>

A client chose their dominatrix/dominator, and then chose the level of services they wanted; their particular kink, something more intimate; something less intimate. There was always the option for intercourse to be added, like an a la carte choice at a favorite restaurant. Most clients weren't interested in that; they wanted the other kind of experiences that The Woman and her ilk could offer, but it was always there as an option.

The first few weeks that Sherlock was on The Menu, he was quite a popular choice; something new; something young. He was booked nearly all day and all night, every day of the week that he was available.

There was a woman in her forties, bright blonde hair that she tied up in a tight bun, and with an incandescent pink blush that glittered underneath the bright lights for just a few minutes before Sherlock turned them off in favor a set of purple and orange scented candles. The wax from the candles was then dripped on her skin for just a second before the wax cooled and Sherlock peeled it away.

The man who enjoyed scratching, Aaron came to him several times; often twice in one week, and there was the usual requests from people whose faces all blurred together, but he had to pretend that they were special each time he saw them, such as whipping, flogging, and a number of other services mixed in.

Despite The Woman passing on her praise, and the praise from him himself, John had not come back, not called to make an appointment. Not that Sherlock was waiting for him to or anything. Of course he wasn't.

But when his phone did beep with an alert from the website or when it rang on his business line there was always a slight tightening in his belly, a slight jump of hope that rose in his chest that maybe it would be him.

* * *

><p>Tea was tiresome. The act of making it and drinking it if he were able to sit in his chair and get lost in his Mind Palace or see how quickly he could finish the daily crossword in the paper wasn't tiresome, but sitting across from Mycroft, in one of the many offices he kept around the city was tiresome, and loathsome at that.<p>

The two men (though brothers and more alike in every possible way than they could imagine), found their balance in disliking the other. In judging the other; holding the other to some kind of contempt that was impossible to overcome.

Most of their time was spent just staring across the vast space between them.

"Is your work going well?" Mycroft asked, sipping over the rim of his white porcelain cup, and setting it down with a gentle clank into the saucer held in his other hand.

"You mean am I excelling at bringing a kind of subversive pleasure to a relatively set pattern of individuals?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes, and set his saucer with the cup down on the small table next to him.

"Yes."

"Of course I'm excelling at it; I excel at everything."

"Mmm, yes, and I'm more than thrilled that you've chosen to utilize your genius at the art of...pleasure."

Sherlock wrapped his lips around his mug in a smile.

"You say it as though it's distasteful. Perhaps you haven't been clear enough with Irene on your particular tastes."

"I can assure you that the woman has no idea what my tastes are, nor will she ever. If I were to submit myself to such base needs I wouldn't need to pay a high end hooker for it."

Sherlock snickered, and readied himself for a comeback when his phone beeped - business alert - from inside the pocket of his coat. He reached into the fine silk lining from where it hung on the back of his chair.

Friday 15/10 - 2100 - Watson, John

Sherlock swallowed down embarrassing excitement that was rising up through his throat, and tucked his phone back into his pocket. Friday; tomorrow. John.

"Work?" Mycroft asked.

"Yes."

"Demanding."

"I am aware that the position I held with the University was prestigious, and managed to actually make you proud of me-"

"Sherlock, I have always been proud of you."

Sherlock cleared his throat, and stood from the chair.

"Yes, well…" he said, closing his buttons, and wrapping his scarf around his neck.

"It's my night off, I'd like to go home and relax."

"Very well, Sherlock. I'll see you next week for tea."

Sherlock nodded his head, and pushed open the heavy door of the dimly lit office out into the remaining sunlight of the day.

* * *

><p>Once home, Sherlock showered and changed into pyjama pants and a soft gray t-shirt. He walked the stairs to the second bedroom of the flat, and unlocked the door with a small silver key in his pocket.<p>

The tables, and the chemistry equipment collected more dust from the last time Sherlock had been up there, and his journals were starting to fray at the edges from must and humidity. In truth, it had only been a year since he last did any work up there, but it was long enough to feel like forever. The calluses on his hands from chemical burns had started to fade away and grow into fresh new skin, the comforting, constant smell of sulfuric acid was gone and replaced with that of leather and sweat.

If Mycroft asked him, if anyone asked him, why it was that he left it all behind the moment he met Irene Adler, and found himself dragged into her beautiful, filthy world, he wouldn't be able to give an answer, because he didn't know.

Likely, he was just bored.

Sherlock re-locked the door, and went back down the steps into his bedroom, where he slipped in between the sheets, and ran through the periodic table - forward, backward, in alphabetical order - in an effort not to think about John.


	8. The First Client of the Morning

Sleep was almost useless that night. Everytime Sherlock closed his eyes, that particular image of John Watson flooded every connection his mind could manage. He felt like there wasn't an empty space inside his head as John took hold of every brain cell, projecting his image without any remorse to the conflictions eating away at Sherlock's mind and soul.

"Fuck." Sherlock moaned as he turned in bed, staring helplessly at the nearby alarm clock.

"It's six o'clock in the morning. And I have barely gotten any sleep to prepare myself for tonight." He continued.

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose as he closed his eyes with a sigh. This time he thought about John voluntarily. He thought about how he would treat him, and how he was most definitely going to be his final client for the night. He knew after John's session, there was no way he would be able to see anyone else after him- his mind would be to preoccupied. Sherlock knew he could pretend as much as he wanted, but the truth was, that John was the only client who could physically and mentally turn him on. And if anyone else saw the after effects- he knew well and truly he would be gone. Irene would dump him like hot coals right there and then.

The clients were always the most important in this devious two way relationship. And if Irene Adler was to suspect anything suspicious going on behind closed doors- she wouldn't have it. That's her policy. And maybe that's one of the reasons why she has been so popular. Everyone was treated equally with no strings attached. Guilt was a non-existent word while in the capable hands of The Woman.

He ran his fingers through his black, untamed curls, feeling the beads of sweat produce along his hairline. He stared at the substance on his hand for a moment before wiping it on his shirt.

As Sherlock staggered out of his bedroom, he walked into the bathroom straight away to freshen up. He had clients starting from 7'o clock that morning who were scheduled to go well into the night. The anticipation was going to eat away at him all day. Every client he saw today would be classed as nothing more than a simple obstacle- all in hopes of getting to John faster, but he knew, it didn't matter how fast he got through the clients, the wait was still going to be agonizingly slow.

Sherlock felt the hot water run down his tall, lanky body. As he firmly placed the palm of his hands against the white tiles he let the water run down his face and body. He closed his eyes as the cascading water belted against his face- letting his mind escape into a thousand realities.

John being in every one of them.

Sherlock's silver watch was sitting on the bathroom bence as he glanced at the time- it was nearly 7am. It was nearly time for his first client. As Sherlock turned off the shower, he shook his wet curls dry-causing the water droplets to scatter across the room.

As Sherlock reached for the towel hanging from the towel rack, his doorbell rang. He let out a sigh- looking down at his half naked body. As he wrapped the towel around his waist he slowly paced towards the door, leaving a trail of water behind.

The door swung open as Sherlock firmly held the towel around his waist.

"Right on time." Sherlock said to the man standing in front of him.

"You said 7'o clock. "

"Yes. I did. And look at me, I'm not even ready yet. This isn't very professional of me, is it?"

The man cheekily smirked as he stared at the expanse of Sherlock up and down. He walked a few steps inside the door before loudly slamming it behind him.

"I wouldn't say that." he said.

Sherlock furrowed his brow as the man hooked his fingers into his waistline. As he seductively stared at the material his face hovered over Sherlock's chest.

"You know..this towel..it's distractive.."

"Mhm. It is. But, I'm afraid that you haven't paid for intercourse tonight, Mr. Wagner."

"Intercourse...who said anything about intercourse?"

"Well, you want me to strip down to nothing. I presume that's what you're after- and you should know our rules and our strict policy."

"I do-"

"Than you should know that there is nothing I can do to change what booking you have made."

"Please..just this once, Sherlock. This once. The Woman..she isn't going to know."

Sherlock's mouth hovered over the young man's hair as he breathed in his heavenly scent. He showered tonight specifically for this. He was hoping he could persuade Sherlock's decision and somehow make him change his mind. That wasn't going to happen.

"Mr. Wagner. Shall we get on with this? We have one hour and you're wasting valuable time."

Mr. Wagner stepped back and looked into Sherlock's blue eyes. He nodded his head in defeat as Sherlock smirked and bent down onto his knees. As he undone the belt around his waist he threw it to the side. His long, nimble fingers slowly pulled down his trousers, letting the cold air hit his thighs as goosebumps scattered along his every surface. The black underwear soon followed, they became coiled around Mr. Wagner's ankles as he sucked in a deep breath.

"Sherlock..as you know, I have seen you plenty of times before, b-but-"

"It's okay. I already know."

"Y-you know? H-how?"

"A mouth has never touched this delicate skin, has it? What exactly are you scared of, Mr. Wagner?"

Sherlock could hear him gulp as his dilated pupils stared down at his wet mess of curls. "I-I'm not scared. I'm not scared of anything."

"Well, that can't be true. Everyone's scared of something. Maybe you're scared of being sucked off?"

Sherlock smirked as his lips met with his delicate skin. He could hear ragged breaths come from above him, hitching in sensational pleasure.

"Don't worry Mr. Wagner. This is only the beginning."


	9. You Taste Like Freedom

The patio was one of Sherlock's favourite places in The Woman's house, so as the sun began to set, and his day began to wind down, Sherlock filled a large glass with ice and water from the kitchen and brought it outside to breathe in the dusk air.

There was a memory on the cusp of those pink and purple clouds. An old villa in Tuscany; his small hand tucked into the tan, aged one of his grandmothers while they stroll along a worn down dirt path; the orange glow of the sunset gleaming from her silver streaked hair into his eyes as he looks up at her.

He was hundreds of miles and tens of years away now, but he could smell the lavender blowing in from the fields, and the lemons ripe on the trees.

It smelled like freedom.

Those summers with his grandmother were the only time Sherlock felt like someone who resembled a child. They spent their mornings kneading dough and their afternoons playing poker while it baked into bread. They talked about art and philosophy, and literature. She listened with a smile and a sparkle in her eye as he always, inevitably went on for hours about chemistry and physics.

Maybe, best of all, she never asked why he couldn't be more like his brother, never thought that he ever should be.

When Sherlock was first disillusioned with the university, was bored for the first time by the love of his life, it was her voice that echoed inside his head.

_Your mind will always tell you what's right, but your heart will always tell you what to do._

The sun had finally disappeared, and with it, the memory.

Sherlock ran his fingers along the rim of his empty glass, and sighed heavy and deep. He was exhausted from his day; the man who shook through his first blowjob, the man after that who mewed like a cat, and the woman who enjoyed hearing her name in the whispered hush of his voice.

Sherlock checked the time on his watch. He had just enough time to shower, and wash away the grime of the day before his last appointment. Before John.

He was nervous; his stomach twisted up in knots. He ignored it, and went about readying the room.

There was a knock on the door. Sherlock turned from the table, and his breath caught in his throat for a moment. He coughed a few times trying to bring air back into his lungs as he looked at John standing in the doorway.

Sherlock watched John take off his jacket, and hang it on a hook in the wall. Underneath it John was wrapped in a red and brown checkered shirt, and a golden cardigan. His hair was a bit uneven and messy from the tangle of nervous fingers, and his smile was crooked; happy, but wary.

It was three steps from the each of them before they met in the middle of the room. Not yet hidden by the blindfold, Sherlock could see his eyes. They were a dull gray set against a sparkling blue.

It seemed that everything about John Watson was a contradiction; a mystery that Sherlock needed to solve.

"Hi," John said.

"Hello."

"Wow." John expressed through a breathless whisper.

His hand reached up to brush against Sherlock's cheek; a light and delicate touch that started with his little finger and slid through to the pad of his thumb, catching at the corner of his mouth.

"I didn't get a chance to see your face last time. The picture on your profile doesn't do you enough justice."

"Th-thank you."

John quickly brought his arm back to his side, and balled his hand into a fist, "Shit, I shouldn't have- sorry."

"It's fine." Sherlock said, and stepped away.

He ran his hand through his hair, and leaned casually against the table, hiding the way his heart was beating out from his chest, though he was sure that John had to be able to hear it. He wrung his hands together, feeling the blood rush stop at the tips where he squeezed hard until they turned white. He had to pull himself together, and stop acting like a lust filled madman.

He closed his eyes, took in a deep breath, and straightened his back out to public school posture.

He could do this. Just another client.

"So," he said, pushing himself away from the table and slinking back to where he left John standing. "I missed a few steps at our last appointment, didn't I?"

He reached for the open edges of John's cardigan, and slid it off his shoulders and down his arms. John stood there, his breath mimicking that of Sherlock's earlier; short and apprehensive, as Sherlock flicked open the buttons of John's shirt. He parted it, and followed the same path as John's sweater took. He still had a white t-shirt on underneath, and Sherlock gripped the hem between his hands. As he tugged the shirt up, and John lifted his arms, Sherlock's fingers tickled at his sides and over his ribcage.

With John's upper body exposed, he could see the scar again, and his eyes had a hard time looking away from it. He could feel John watching him look at it, his eyes as alert as they must have been when he was a soldier, waiting to see if Sherlock was going to make a move to touch it. He wanted to; wanted to trace around it, and feel the ugly, dimpled scar tissue underneath his fingers.

"Mid range. Point of entry in the front. The bullet tore through bone and cartilage, but it was precise- from a sniper. Even a centimetre in any direction, and you would be dead."

"I nearly was. After they finally got the bullet out, and stitched me up, it got infected. I don't remember much. I woke up in the field hospital, and then another in Kabul, and finally in London."

"It's made a magnificent scar."

John laughed, "It's horrible and ugly. The only positive is that since I can't feel it, I don't always remember it's there."

Sherlock's fingers were hovering over it, following the white and red lines of still inflamed skin, but never touching.

They stood together like that, lost in the moment before John's hand clasped around Sherlock's fingers and he pressed them together against the scar. John's head fell back, and even though his body was tense, he cried out in a long groan of relief.

"It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. I'd love to look at it underneath a microscope."

John laughed, "That's a bit odd."

"Just a habit leftover from my old life."

Sherlock quickly glanced over the scar once more, committing it to memory, and stood up.

"Your old life?"

"Yes, now, should we get back to it? You're going to build up a credit."

John smiled, "Its fine if I do, Mr. Holmes."

It was warm, and it was real, and it made every tight knot in his stomach unwind, made the rod in his back bend.

"You can call me Sherlock."

He undid John's flys and waited as he stepped out of them, tripping over his shoes before he remembered they were on.

When john was standing there in his pants, a speckled gray this time, Sherlock pulled the satin blindfold from his pocket and dangled it in front of John before slipping it over his eyes.

Sherlock felt almost giddy as he lead John to the bed, and tied his limbs to the bed. He didn't understand why, nothing had changed. John was still a paying client, and Sherlock still just doing his job, but there was an excitement there he hadn't felt since the first time he passed a needle into his veins.

It was much the same as before. Sherlock wielded the crop, and watched the way John's body arched and begged for more. John's fingers wrapped around the restraints, fighting against them to reach out and touch much the same way Sherlock's fingers wrapped around the leather fighting his own urges to reach out, and run his finger along the seam of John's chest, over his navel and to dip into the band of his pants, and feel the soft sensitive skin underneath.

"Sherlock- -" John's voice cut through the air like a crack of the whip; thick and reckless with abandon. "The blindfold; take it off. Please."

The elastic of the band snapped against Sherlock's fingers as he slid it through John's hair With John's eyes holding him a gaze Sherlock couldn't break, he dropped the crop to the floor next to the blindfold. He threw one long leg over John's and straddled his waist.

With shaking hands, Sherlock reached out and laid his palm against John's chest. He felt John shudder underneath him, watched his eyes break contact to flutter closed. He counted the beats of his heart, and placed his other hand over his own to compare.

Both were about to break out of their chests.

Sherlock was frozen, unsure of what he should do next; unsure of what he had just done in the first place.

As in answer to Sherlock's apprehension, John bucked underneath him, sliding their pelvi together. Sherlock moaned, the first real sound he allowed himself to make, and he repeated it as John made the same move again and again. He flicked open the buttons of his shirt, the sweat budding against his skin too much to handle, and dropped his palms on John's shoulders, building the pressure between them.

For the first time, in maybe his entire life, Sherlock wasn't thinking; he was doing, acting, following an instinct rather than logic.

He had never felt more free.


	10. Goodbye for One Last Time

John sat on the bed with his legs folded underneath him as he buttoned up his shirt. He watched as Sherlock frantically paced the room , fully dressed, looking up and down at his watch.

"Sherlock, can you please just slow down?" John said.

"Slow down? No, John. I can't slow down." Sherlock said as he stopped for a moment, sucking in a deep breath while he stared at the soft, tender skin of John's chest.

"Sherlock..what's wrong?" John plead.

Sherlock stared at John wide eyed. He stared at him as if it was going to be the last time they would see each-other for eternity. As if right at that moment they were going to be separated and never see each other again.

"Sherlock-"

"John..please. You wouldn't understand."

John stared at Sherlock's lanky body before lazily pushing himself up onto his feet. As he slowly paced over to Sherlock he gently took him by the hand, clasping it within his own.

"Well, help me understand."

Sherlock stared at John's fingers as they weaved in and out of each other. "John, it felt good. And you don't know how wrong that is."

"Why is it wrong?"

"Because this is my job. I am supposed to bring pleasure to my clients. Not myself. It's not decent. It's not right."

"Sherlock, you're only human. We all have emotions."

"Yes. But you don't understand. If Irene finds out I have been getting pleasure out of this...I'm gone."

"Gone? Why?"

"Because you as the client pay for this pleasure. Getting it for free would be a luxury, but getting paid for it certainly wouldn't be acceptable."

John looked down to his shoes and shook his head. He clasped his fingers around Sherlock's hand tighter as he drawed out a long sigh, causing Sherlock to stare at him with what could be mistaken as remorse.

"It's okay, Sherlock. I won't be telling her."

Sherlock said nothing, instead he sternly nodded his head before taking a step back. "Well, John. I should be heading home. I have an early start tomorrow morning. I can't let what has happened here tonight take away from my other clients. It wouldn't be right. One slip up is forgivable, but Irene would begin to notice if multiple were to arise. People tend to complain if their expectations are not met."

John let out a shallow chuckle while staring at the floor. "Really? Complaints? That's almost hard to believe."

Sherlock snickered as he grasped the doorknob. As he pushed the door open he felt John hovering behind him; feeling a sudden surge of goosebumps litter their way across his skin and up his spine infecting his every vertebrae like a god forsaken curse. A curse on his sexuality. A curse on him.

"You best be off now, John. If you need to make an appointment. Feel free to make one. I'll do my best to tend to your needs as soon as possible."

John looked Sherlock up and down. His expressionless face was almost intimidating as he slowly paced out of the room. As he turned around, Sherlock was there- staring at him.

"I'll make an appointment with you soon, Sherlock. But for now..goodbye."

Sherlock outstretched his arm, nodding his head in a gesture of acceptance. John smiled as he shook Sherlock's hand, feeling a mutual appreciation flow between the two of them.

John walked away, leaving Sherlock behind. Sherlock could only look on, wondering to himself if he ever was going to truly see John again, or if Irene was going to jeopardize everything he had worked so hard for and jeopardize his newly formed career. Time would only tell.


	11. Fancy Meeting You Here

Sherlock didn't have the chance to make it back to his flat the night before. He had toys to clean, shelves to organize, and rooms to tidy up and disinfect before the next days clients were to come in again.

He was just on his way out the door and back home for a shower and a change into his own clothes when The Woman caught him by the cuff of his sleeve.

"Sherlock, could I talk to you for just a moment?" Irene asked, excusing herself from the man she was in conversation with, leaving him with a mischievous smile.

She linked her arm with Sherlock, and walked along the hardwood floors with him.

The Woman was mischievous, unforgiving and calculating. She had a talent something akin to Sherlock; able to feel when something was off, when someone was lying. Sherlock knew he was better than her - he knew he was better than anyone, but as her newly lacquered nails wrapped over the sleeve of his jacket, he still felt nervous that she knew.

But what was there to know? No matter how detached anyone was from a situation, sex was sex, and even The Woman was guilty of letting the pleasure spark through her once and a while.

It wasn't the pleasure he was worried about, it was the desire. It was the absolute want and need that overtook him, that kept him awake at night, and kept him sweating underneath his covers.

It was the desire that he couldn't let her see.

"I ran into Dr. Watson last night. He looked very satisfied."

"He's one of my easier clients to please."

Irene laughed, "Yes, I suppose he is your client now. He's all but forgotten my existence; made another appointment with you day after next."

"Then I presume my probationary period is over?"

"Yes, i believe that it is."

She left him in the hall, and left him to his day of clients. It was exhausting, there could be no question about that. At some point the faces and the request blurred together, but Sherlock carried on like the good English gentleman he was.

Sherlock's day continued much as the others did. While every face was different, everyone and everything they wanted was the same. It wouldn't have been fair to say that it was boring, because Sherlock Holmes could find the monotony in anything. Though perhaps, it wasn't as fulfilling as he believed it to be.

It was somewhere between his fourth and fifth client that Sherlock realized he hadn't really been there with any of them; his body automatically doing what was requested of him, or his mouth knowing what to say and where to kiss, but his mind was where it was always, and where it should be no longer.

He needed time to think, time to figure out what in the hell he was going to do about the brain that was betraying him, about the heart that was insisting on living again.

* * *

><p>The Woman wasn't nude, but near to it when Sherlock opened the door of her bedroom at her invitation to his knock. The turquoise, silken straps of her bra were so far down her shoulders that her breasts wouldn't be contained much longer, though judging by the complete state of undress of her assistant underneath her, Sherlock could only deduce that they weren't meant to be.<p>

Sherlock cleared his throat, and averted his eyes, focusing them instead on the wall in front of him, only to be reminded of the large mirror on The Woman's vanity, making it impossible to feign politeness in their presence.

"Something you needed Sherlock, or did you just want to watch?" The Woman asked. "Kate won't mind, will you love?"

Sherlock saw Kate shake her head with a smirk of invitation through her reflection in the mirror.

He cleared his throat, and ignored the salacious flirtation.

"I just wanted to inform you that I'm feeling under the weather, and am going to have to cancel my appointments for the rest of the week."

"Oh, isn't that a shame? Well, run yourself home, I'll contact your clients."

"Thank you. I'll be back for the weekend of course."

The Woman smiled, "Of course. Is that all, then?"

"Yes. Goodnight Irene, goodnight Kate."

The T was hard on Sherlock's tongue, and he turned on his heels to shuffle out from the room.

He wasn't truly ill, but the only way he could trust himself with John Watson was to be nowhere near him.

Unfortunately, in his time away from work and The Woman, there was the expected side effect of boredom, and the unforeseen consequence of that damn doctor always being on his mind.

It was Wednesday night when the crux of it all hit. He had read all his books, stared into countless fires, and brought himself off in the shower... and the bedroom... and the chair to the image of John more times than he would care to admit. There was always the option of an experiment, but it had been so long, and he just didn't have the want.

Sherlock sighed, and opted for a cup of tea just to keep busy for even a few minutes. When he opened the fridge for the milk his eye was caught by a golden glimmer from a card stuck to the metal: an invitation, to Mike and Helen Stamford's tenth wedding anniversary.

Mrs. Hudson must have dug through the bin and taken it out, because Sherlock had a vague memory of tossing it out weeks before. He tore it down and tossed it again. Mike was a good enough man, and had been a decent colleague during his time at Bart's, but there wasn't any reason for Sherlock to attend his anniversary party.

It was probably going to be boring anyway.

* * *

><p>Sherlock crossed the floor of the banquet hall, making his way to the long happily married couple.<p>

Back home, he sat in his chair only twenty minutes after binning the invitation before he decided that changing into his blackest trousers, and deep red button up might end up being worth the time, and calling for a cab.

Mike and Helen were standing as part of a group; something reminiscent of a high school dance. Sherlock regretted his decision to come the moment he walked through the propped open door of their lovely two story suburban home. The faces were all ones that knew, people who worked at Bart's with him, people he cut down into shreds and made cry were watching him and looking for an answer to their long held curiosity on what happened to the genius after his breakdown.

Mike spotted him, and waved a chubby hand in the air to call him over.

Sherlock's smile wasn't real, but it was pleasant enough when he finally made it to politely shake Mike's hand in welcome.

"I was positive you weren't going to make it." Mike said with a laugh. "But I am glad you did. You remember my wife, Helen?"

Sherlock turned to the dark haired woman on his arm. They met once or twice before; nothing of importance exchanged between them, and most of the encounters were deleted to make room for things more interesting.

"Of course. Happy Anniversary and all that."

"Thanks, mate. So, what have you been up to?"

"I've started with a new business. Away from science."

Mike nodded his head, "Sherlock was a genius; a real great chemist." he said to one of the men -bald by choice, single father, worried about his children with the new babysitter, canceled a date he really didn't want to go on to be there - standing with them.

"I still am." Sherlock said calmly and coldly.

There was the expected uncomfortable silence that Sherlock took as his cue to grab a drink and leave, but he was stopped by Mike's hand on his shoulder as the other reached out for the arm of someone else passing them by and pulled him in.

If Sherlock were less of a man, or rather, if he were like other men, his ears would have pinked, and the skin on his face would have flushed; a line of sweat may have even broke out around his hairline, but Sherlock was better than all that, so rather than externally making a fool of himself at the sight of John Watson before him, he internally broke down, with a fast beating heart, and a knotted stomach.

"Sherlock, this is my mate John Watson." Mike introduced, "Studied at Bart's together a long time ago. John, an old colleague, Sherlock Holmes."

John's eyes were wide, his face a little paler than ought to be, but he held out his hand with a smile, and shook Sherlock's with a well played innocence.

"Nice to meet you Mr. Holmes." he said.

"Likewise, Dr. Watson."

Mike smiled at the two of them, waiting in a silence like he was expecting something to happen, but all that did happen was Sherlock wished him well, and fled as elegantly as possible out the patio door and lit a cigarette.

He inhaled the smoke and reveled in the way it calmed him. Of all the places to run into John; Mike Stamford's anniversary party. He should have known. Somehow, he should have known.

"Bart's was a part of that old life you were talking about?"

Sherlock turned at the sound of John's voice followed by the click of the closing patio door.

"Yes, it was." Sherlock answered.

"Did you study medicine?"

"I was a chemist. Spent a fair amount of my time manipulating drug reactions."

"So, how does a chemist become a sex worker?"

"A simpler transition than one might expect."

There was a silence between the two of them. Sherlock dropped his cigarette over the side of the railing and quickly lit another one, aware of the look John gave him from the corner of his eye.

"You canceled on me." John finally said.

"I did."

John slid away from the doorway and into the shadows where Sherlock was standing, his cigarette and a faint sliver from the moon the only thing lighting the dark night. He was nearly toe to toe with him, John's cologne; an unforgettable scent, mingled with the smoke escaping from between Sherlock's lips.

"Feeling better, then?" John asked.

"Yes. I am. Feel free to reschedule."

John laughed; a quick huff of air out of his nose and a shake of his head. It was that moment, that small, smart ass smirk that Sherlock knew there was nothing left for it. he flicked his cigarette to the ground, and wrapped his fingers around John's wrist. Feeling his body flushed up against his, the wind wrapping around them and ticking at the hairs on the backs of their neck was heady, and John's touch against the soft skin of his cheek was downright intoxicating.

Sherlock crashed their lips together, tasting everything of John that he could on his tongue and within his mouth. John kissed back, his intent clearly the same, but it wasn't enough. Sherlock found purpose on John's hips, and pushed him backward up against the house.

"Come home with me." John whispered against Sherlock's neck.

"I shouldn't."

"Come home with me, Sherlock."

John repeated his plea and accentuated it with a bit to the tender flesh above Sherlock's pulse point. A noise escaped from Sherlock's mouth that he had never heard before, but felt like the only sound he was going to be capable of making ever again if John kept sucking at his neck the way that he was.

"Yes- okay. I will." he answered, breath strangled.

They continued to taste and to touch; hands sliding underneath hems, fingers dipping below waistlines. It was all either of them could do to keep upright, to keep dressed. Sherlock needed to feel John's skin again; more of it, all of it. He wanted to know it and memorize it - out there in the night underneath the starlight - like he had never wanted anything before.


	12. Compromises

The door frantically swung open as wild hands roamed each others bodies. Their mouths captured each others lips as their fingered unhooked their shirts. They became coiled on the ground as Sherlock forcefully pushed John down onto the bed. The springs of the mattress tightened as the weight and pressure of the two men bounded down on top of it.

"S-Sherlock...are we really going to do this?" John managed to say between spontaneous breaths.

"Of course we are. Don't be dull."

As John opened his mouth to speak he almost yelped at the sensation of Sherlock pulling his hair- forcing him to rest his head against the pillow on the bed.

"But..what about Irene? Do you think she will find out?"

Sherlock began to creep his way between John's legs. His mouth met with his ear where he gently whispered inside. "Keep it a secret; and she won't know anything about tonight."

John arched his back up against the mattress as he felt Sherlock's teeth nibble at his jugular. "I'll be keeping this a secret for as long as you want."

Sherlock chuckled against John's skin as his hands gently rubbed him across his abdomen. "When you wake up tomorrow morning. Forget about tonight. Forget about everything."

"What? Why?"

"Because unfortunately for you, humans have defects. And I would hate for this to accidentally slip out of your mouth one night."

John's eyes widened as he sat up, staring intently into Sherlock's eyes. "Sherlock. I'm not going to tell anyone. I promise. I still want to see you under professional circumstances."

"And that's what worries me, John."

"Excuse me?"

"You see me too often. And Irene is starting to notice."

John squinted his eyes in a confused manner as he glanced at the door past Sherlock's shoulder. "Too often? I-I don't understand. I'm not making my appointments anymore frequent. In fact, they have been less."

"And that's exactly what I'm talking about. Your typical behaviour has changed. And she is beginning to take notice. I want your next appointment to be with her. You're seeing me too often. And we both know that our decisions here could decide the fate of our future."

Sherlock pushed the palm of his hand against John's chest as he stepped up onto his feet. He stared down into John's eyes as he gazed up at him, almost feeling him begging him not to do this.

"Sherloc-"

"John..please be quiet. I never said I'm not going to have sex with you tonight. Trust me- I certainly endeavour to. But..there is one thing I need you to do for me before we begin. Just one thing."

John wasn't sure what to say in response. He was confused. He had a million thoughts and theories running through his mind, but none of them could possibly be right.

As John sat there, staring off into the distance with not a word to say. Sherlock regretfully clenched his fists around the wood of the nearby table. He slowly reached into his trousers where he pulled out two white tablets.

"I'm sorry, John. But I have to do this."

The padding of Sherlock's thumb crushed the white pills against the wooden grain of the table as he scooped the powder into a glass of water. He generously stirred it before spinning on the heels of his shoes, smiling at John as he looked him up and down.

"Drink this, John. I promise you that tomorrow you'll wake up and you won't remember a thing."

John stared at the drink and back to Sherlock before backing away, realizing he had nowhere to go. Behind him was a dead-end. And he had no escape.

"N-No. Sherlock...please don't."

Sherlock softly placed the palm of his hand behind John's head where he ran his fingers through the coarseness of his hair. His eyes were filled with panic, while Sherlock's were filled with tranquility.

When you stared into Sherlock Holmes' eyes, it was like being hypnotized into a world of serenity. Nothing else mattered. And it was only you and him against the rest of the world and that's how he liked it. That was the one drastic effect he had one people. And no individual would be able to stop that.

Sherlock gently raised the rim of his glass up to John's lips as he tilted his head back. The water slowly ran down John's chin and into his mouth as he stared into Sherlock's captivation.

"It's okay, John. You'll be okay." Sherlock said as he gently lowered him down onto the pillow while stroking his cheek


	13. Breathe Out, So I can Breathe you In

Sherlock closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. He needed to relax, to find his own control again. The pills were never meant for John, but he had to be there at that stupid party, and Sherlock had to give in to his lips, and his eyes, and to the feel of his fingers against his skin.

He couldn't say no - didn't want to say no.

Just as Sherlock was about to open his eyes again, he felt a heavy hand push against his chest, and the spray of warm water over his face.

"Are you bloody mad?" John yelled.

"John, I - you don't understand."

"You're right, I don't understand, so make me."

Sherlock took a deep breath. How was he supposed to make John understand the one thing Sherlock didn't understand himself. Love was a mystery to Sherlock in such a way that he compartmentalized it and dissected it down to its bare bones the way he did with everything else, because then it could make some sort of sense.

"The only thing I ever had feelings for, that I sought the touch of day after day - that lit me up the same way love does other people, was chemistry. But a year ago, it stopped being enough. My life long passion bored me, it angered me, and I left it behind - moved onto to something new and more exciting."

"Sherlock, I'm not asking you to love me."

" But you are everywhere inside my mind! I can't stop thinking about you, can't stop wanting you..."

John reached out and wrapped his hand around Sherlock's wrist.

"And you are an itch underneath my skin I can't scratch. All I want is for you to fuck me without the rules of The Woman."

"Just tonight?

"Until I'm no longer infatuated with you."

Sherlock stared up at John, "I find that acceptable."

It turned out that John's infatuation was insatiable. They still saw each other professionally to keep up appearance - no more or less than usual, but always at the end of the day. The ties and the crop were turned from exercises in trust to foreplay. And then it was a rendezvous at John's flat, nights of pleasure unimaginable, and wholly unforgettable that ended with lying in the small twin bed, and floating through conversations.

"Do you really think she's going to fire you? It isn't as if you're having an affair with all your clients."

"Irene takes great pride in her business. She takes even more pride in me."

"What do you mean?"

"Our philosophies aren't very different - logic and fact outweigh emotion. She believes as I do that our bodies are merely transport." Sherlock laughed, "She just found a way to make a living on the knowledge that it's more than that to other people."

John traced his fingertips around the line of Sherlock's hips, slow and light until Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut, and a strangled breath escaped his throat.

"And you aren't like other people, are you?" he asked with a smile.

"It's only the chemicals in my brain responding to the external stimuli of your touch."

John pressed an off centered kiss to Sherlock's lips, "Keep telling yourself that."

Sherlock smirked, and turned over on his side. John's bed was horribly small, but Sherlock felt more comfortable in his flat, because it felt less real when he wasn't waking up next to John's face, when he wasn't sharing what was his with him, and Sherlock was not ready for anything to be real.

John may not have asked for Sherlock to fall in love with him, but what neither of them knew was that Sherlock's heart wasn't seeking permission. For the first time in a long time, it was doing as it pleased.

"If this lasted; if we turned into something, would you even want to continue working with her?" John asked.

"Does it bother you?"

"No. It doesn't. I know it's just a job to you."

"But?"

John laughed nervously, "But what?"

"My work may not bother you, but something does."

John scrubbed his hand over the back of his neck, "We only see each other after an appointment."

"You know I'm busy; it just works out that way."

"I know- I know. I just thought it would be nice if maybe-"

Sherlock turned back over and looked at John, "You want to go on a date, don't you?"

"Um, well, yes. I do."

John's eyes were wide, and he was twisting the hem of the sheets between his fingers. Sherlock pressed his palm against John's cheek, and felt the heated flush warm through to his fingertips.

"I'll think about it."

John smiled, and pulled away from Sherlock's hand, "Thanks. I suppose you're going to be heading back to your flat now?"

Sherlock checked the time on the clock on the bedside table, and slid out from underneath the covers. He bent down searching for his clothes, "Yes. I have an early appointment tomorrow."

"Right. Well, Bye."

"Goodbye, John."


	14. Don't fight it Don't resist it

The next day came far quicker than Sherlock would have liked. As soon as he opened his eyes the first thing which popped into his mind was John Watson. He was starting to become a priority- which was wrong. It wasn't right. His priority right now should be his next client. And prepping himself for her arrival.

The client gave very specific details of what she wanted. And she wanted to come to Sherlock's apartment. Home addresses are usually off limits. But she is an exception.

Sherlock quickly changed into something more suitable. He knew his client liked to arrive early. He never knew what for exactly. Arriving early wasn't going to give them more time she knew that. Perhaps she enjoyed a small chat before they began? Perhaps the small talk calmed her nerves which were notably riddled across her face before each appointment.

As Sherlock adjusted the cuff of his black blazer he heard a knock on his door. He glanced over his shoulder only to see a dark haired woman standing there with pale, milky like skin.

Sherlock snickered as he spun on the heels of his shoes to stare her in the eyes. "Hello Justine. It's a pleasure as always." he said before looking at the time on his clock.

"Eight thirty. Half an hour early as always. You have no concept of the word privacy, do you?"

"Privacy? Privacy is just a word to avoid people until you get the courage to see them. Are you trying to avoid me, Sherlock Holmes?"

"Not at all. But maybe you should close the door."

The door quickly shut with a slam as Justine paced over to Sherlock. He was now leaning against his table with folded arms as he watched Justine move closer towards him with her every step.

"The quicker we get this over with. The quicker we can both get on with our day." Sherlock said as he stared down into her eyes.

"My appointment isn't until nine o'clock. We have plenty of time to talk about something….anything."

Sherlock smirked as he lazily pushed himself away from the table. Everything was silent for a moment, the only sound was the wind outside bashing itself up against the window- threatening to break inside.

"So, tell me….what does your sister think about this? Does she even know?"

"My sister? Does she know? Of course she knows. After all...she is the one who used to experiment on me."

Sherlock stopped for a minute. Thoughts flooded through his mind in an instant as her voice replayed in his head. "Experiment? Please...do explain."

"When Irene and I were teenagers. She always had a fascination for this type of stuff. Well…..one night they were out. And it was just us at home. We were alone. We were bored."

"What exactly happened?"

"She thought it would be a good idea to put her ideas and knowledge to the test. Our parents were out. That was a fairly rare occasion for us. Most of the time we got dragged along- but not this time. We finally had a few hours of freedom all to ourselves. I suppose Irene wanted to rebel...and so did I. For once I wanted to do something against the rules. So I done what Irene asked of me."

"What did she ask of you?" Sherlock asked.

"She asked me to lay down onto the bed and take off my clothes. At first I wasn't comfortable with it. But Irene assured me that it wasn't sex. She assured me it was a natural form of pleasure. I was nervous-"

"You still are nervous." Sherlock intervened, cutting her off in an instant.

Justine cleared her throat as she continued to speak. "Yes. Well, anyway...as I was saying- at first I was nervous. I was naked on her bed. I was naked in front of my sister, waiting for her to do whatever she pleased with me. Why would she do that?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes before drawing out a long, annoying sigh. "Well, it's pretty obvious isn't it? Your parents were out and the time was right. You wanted to rebel and Irene wanted to put her knowledge to use. It was all convenience. Nothing more...nothing less." Sherlock sighed again as he folded his arms. "Now, please continue with the story. It's nearly nine."

"Right. Well, Irene had me on the bed naked. She told me to lay out flat. She told me she needed to know where other people's pressure points were so she could experiment."

"And I think she's right. I wouldn't worry about it too much. Incest is the least of your problems. If she really wanted you, you would be wrapped around her little finger right now with no where to go. You helped her produce this business. You were just a stepping stone to somewhere greater."

Justine breathed a sigh of relief. Almost as if she was glad she got that off her chest. "Thank you." she said before looking at the clock. "And it's nine o'clock. Shall we begin?"

Sherlock smirked as he looked at the clock too and nodded his head. "Yes. I think we should. And don't worry...I know exactly what you want. I promise I'll deliver with great care and accuracy."

She kneeled down as Sherlock tied a gag inside her mouth and yanked her by the hair. Justine liked it rough. And Sherlock knew exactly what to give each personality type. Maybe that's one of the reasons he was so good at this job.

The force of Sherlock yanking her hair caused her to yelp slightly. Which for him was a good sign. He began to slowly pull away her clothes until she was in nothing more than her underwear. As he stood up onto his feet he smirked and walked over to the briefcase sitting near his bed. The briefcase contained many novelty toys and items which could be put to good use. It was just a matter of finding the right ones to do the right job.

As Sherlock came back to Justine. He snatched her by the wrists where he tightly tied them together with a piece of thick rope. He done the same to her ankles so she had nowhere to go even if she tried.

_She was like a hostage._

_No way to scream. No way to fight. No way to resist._


	15. What is this to you?

_John was struggling against his restraints- Sherlock could see the unforgiving twist of the rope cutting against the delicate skin of his wrists and letting blood roll up his arm and drip down to the white sheets below. His eyes were blindfolded, and a soft patch of tape stretched over his mouth. With Sherlock tieing off the last knot in the ropes around his ankles, John was secured to the bed like a prisoner, and he looked absolutely gorgeous. The bites Sherlock speckled over John's thighs, and his stomach were turning dark and angry, the welts from the leather of the riding crop were inflamed and red; Sherlock could hardly wait to cause more damage to him, to own him and make him writhe and squeal against his gag, begging for mercy that Sherlock had no intention to give him. _

_He crawled along the length of John's body, and pressed his lips against John's ear, "You look amazing John, so helpless. There's nothing you can do to get away from me, but then, you don't want to, do you?"_

_John shook his head, and tugged against his ropes._

"_Good, because I won't let you. You're mine to do with as I please, and I please to do a lot. So, let's start with the whip, shall we?"_

_Sherlock smirked against John's cheek, and left him whimpering to find the whip in his stash of experiments for the night. When he found it and came back to John, he raised it high in the air and -_

"An addiction, Sherlock. That's all it is."

Sherlock shook his head, and blinked his eyes back into focus of the reality around him. He wasn't home with John tied to his bed, but rather he was in The Astoria tea room, sipping on a cuppa that had long gone cold with his brother.

"You replaced an addiction to heroin with science, and you've replaced your addiction to science with this _career _of yours. Soon enough you'll replace that with another. This Dr. Watson, perhaps?"

"What do you know of John?" Sherlock asked, his tone clipped, and angry.

"I know enough."

"It's isn't an addiction. And neither is he."

"You're fond of him, however?"

"What do you care, Mycroft? And why do you keep insisting on having these weekly teas?"

The legs of the chair scraped against the hardwood floor as Sherlock set his cup down into his saucer and stood from the table.

"On occasion I do like to get my information straight from you. As hard as it may be."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and flopped back down into the chair.

"I just want to know, Sherlock, what do you intend to do when he's no longer willing to compete with the ones who pay for your attention?"

"What I do doesn't bother John."

Mycroft chuckled in that almost silent way that left Sherlock feeling uneasy, and stirred his tea.

"It doesn't." Sherlock said. "And if it did, it wouldn't be of any matter. It isn't as though we're-"

"In love? Of course not Sherlock. You don't love anything; you just addict yourself to things and move on when you've gotten bored."

Sherlock stood again, this time with every intention to leave. He got his coat from the coat check in the lobby and pressed into the windy afternoon before him. Of course Sherlock was going to leave John when he was bored, what was the point of staying to do anything when you were tired of it? Sherlock had done that since he was a child, so why did Mycroft make it seem as though John should be any different? Why did Sherlock feel like he might be right?

When Sherlock returned home, he drew himself a bath, made a cup of tea, and brought his violin from it's case. He spent a half hour, twisting at the metal prongs and tightening the strings until the curved, wooden body produced a sound as virgin and perfect as the day he brought it home. He had no appointments that day, and none the next either. It wasn't that his services were no longer being sought out, quite the opposite in fact, but physically, his body needed a break.

Sherlock played melodies from his memory into the evening as he watched the street down below him; patrons coming in and out of the sandwich shop next door, a few of them drinking a cuppa at the small table that sat outside. Mothers pushing prams, and fathers with their children on top of their shoulders. Young lovers holding hands, nuzzling their faces against one another, and John walking up to his door. There was a -

Wait. John walking up to his door?

Sherlock set the instrument down on the sofa and scampered down the stairs to open it just as John's hand was reaching up for the knocker. He was dressed well; dark khaki trousers, checkered button up and a navy cardigan sweater, but he looked angry, disappointed; hurt.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked.

"What are you doing here?" John asked backed.

"I live here, so this is where I came to...live."

"We had a date."

"Oh. I thought that was tomorrow."

John rolled his eyes, and pushed Sherlock through the door, so that they were standing in the foyer. John's physical stature may have been less imposing than Sherlock's, but in that moment, it was not lost on Sherlock that John had taken lives before.

"Mmm - I doubt you forgot, Sherlock. I know you think it's stupid, but -"

"It is stupid, John. If the intention of a date is to see if you want to end up in bed with the other person by the end of the night, it's a step we don't need."

"The intention of _our_ date was to get to know each other outside of the bedroom. I know I want to fuck you, Sherlock, but I don't know _you_."

"Do you need to?"

John backed off, stepped back on his heels so that he was a few paces away from Sherlock, and stared at him. His chest was even, but his breath was coming out of his nostrils in short, loud spurts, and his fist was balled up at his side.

"Is this just… sex for you?" John asked.

"It-" Sherlock started, but then bit back the rest of his words. He wanted to say _yes_, because he wanted it to be true; it _was _true. It was sex; great, glorious sex that he craved, that he day dreamt about while having tea with Mycroft, but it was only the sex he wanted, the body that John carried and the things he did with it. Not _John, _not his mind, or his history, or his fears, or his dreams.

No. He didn't want those pieces of John. He didn't want to be responsible for them, have to tend to them and care for them, and make sure they didn't break in his hands, because they would - Sherlock would take them and smash them all into tiny fragments of what John once was; who he could have been.

Sherlock looked up from where he was staring at his feet, realizing he hadn't put any shoes in his rush to meet John at the door. His toes were cold.

He met John's gaze, and was lost for something to say, because anything that came out of his mouth, any way he chose to answer John's question was going to be a lie.

"Right." John said, "Fine. That's all the answer I need.

He turned quickly for the door, but stopped before his hand reached the handle, and turned back to where Sherlock was still standing; still quiet. He started to say something, started to _try _and get the words out, but he stopped, shook his head and his hand in front of Sherlock's face instead, and backed away to leave.

Sherlock stood in the foyer, hands in his pockets, and listened to the wind blow through the door. He had been watching the weather change since he came home - leaves blowing around on the pavement, people wrapping their scarves tighter. Now, he could smell the rain on the precipice of the atmosphere.

He watched John go, watched the outside fade to black, and just stood.


End file.
